Merci, Notre Dame de Paris
by lunethemoon
Summary: I stood watching the poor man tortured...and I knew I couldn't just watch them beat him. I had to save him, I had to help him, I had to bring meaning to his life...and somehow through the course of this all...I knew I had to love him. (Quasimodo and some lovely self-insertion. If you're a book nut, this is actually p. good)
1. The Pillory

I felt my foot slip off the edge of the balcony. My heart began to race and the last thing that crossed my mind was "why was I wearing stockings on a wet balcony". As I fell everything began to darken, my mind and my vision. I could slowly feel myself dying before I even reached the ground, as I was told by my mother I would. "They say the houses in Paris can be so high that if one fell, they'd die before they touched the stone". I exhaled my last and tensed my muscles, bracing for the feeling of my spine cracking in two when suddenly the unexpected softness of velvet came in contact with my body. Screaming and shouting echoed around me as I came to. The merchant, whose cart I had landed in, was hurling curse after curse at me for ruining his fine fabric that he was going to use to prepare a new robe for our dear king. I slowly hunched my shoulders forward and rolled backwards out of his cart into the muddy street. My head was spinning as I slowly regained my senses, the light piercing my eyes, the smell of mud and wool penetrating my nostrils, the taste of dirt and life filling my mouth, the cold wet stone beneath my hands and the sound of a great crowd cursing and jeering at some poor soul who was serving his punishment on the pillory before Notre Dame.

I gradually pushed myself off the road and allowed my body to fall against the nearest wall. It was a hot summer day, the skies blue and the sun breaking through the gables and roofs, forcing everyone who didn't have the pleasure of occupying a spot in the shade to wince their eyes shut. I sighed, looking down at my dress. Filthy. The pale green of my skirt had become a sort of brown with green blotches. I noticed my stockings were muddy and had also obtained a sort of faded brown hue that replaced their former white.

The crowd by Notre Dame was getting louder and more belligerent. The curses I overheard being hurled toward the hopeless man were taking on even crueler tones the longer I heard them screaming. Half of me felt the urge to go investigate what the man had done to warrant such curses, while the other half of me wanted to go inside, wash up, and attempt weaving my blanket again. I pushed myself from the wall that I had been leaning on and made my way back to the house whose balcony I had fallen from. My eyes were focused on the ground, watching for any sharp object that had the potential to puncture my feet, when I noticed my skin of water that I had laid on the ledge of the balcony. I smirked, assuming that it must have been kicked off when I slipped to my almost-death. I picked it up and continued walking, attempting to ignore the curses (which, even now, were filled with more malice and contempt than they had been) that were being shouted ever louder in the square.

"Monster!"

"You killed my baby with your gaze!"

"Demon from hell! Go back where you belong!"

"You deserved a thousand more lashes!"

"They should tie you there to bake in the sun until you die!"

"Hideous creature of Lucifer!"

Then suddenly a hush swept through the crowd and the smallest voice, weak, shaking, hurting, echoed through the crowd.

"Wa-ter. Water. W-a-ter" it cried. The silence of the crowd began to slowly dissipate as murmurs turned to laughing and again to cursing and jeering. The weak voice continued to, almost delicately, call out for water. I felt my heart jump forth, and to be honest, it dragged me before my feet even thought to move toward the pillory. First I was carefully, slowly, walking, and then gradually my walk became a jog, then a sprint, and finally before I even realized I was dripping with mud I was pushing myself through the crowd, and running up the stairs to the top of the pillory where I knelt, fumbling to pull the cork from the skin of water when my gaze shifted to find the mouth of the poor victim.

I froze when I saw the creature before me. His face was twisted, one eye was normal while the other supported a great mass, the size of a stone you'd find by the river. His mouth was puckered, his lips cracked and dry (clearly why he was so thirsty). His nose looked almost like that of a pig: pushed backward, looking in a way puckered like his poor lips, only much larger and stranger looking. There were remnants of rotten vegetables that had been hurled at him all over his poor face. His eyes though…they were the color of the Cine, blue and deep; his hair was the color of fire, or leaves in the middle of October. The great mass that was his head rested upon to uneven shoulders, one so much higher than the other that the shoulder blade formed a great hump on his back that was raw and sticky with blood from the flogging he had apparently just endured. His breathing, which was labored, caused his hump to rise into the air before slowly descending and rising again. He was kneeling, but one could even tell that something was wrong with his legs also: the parts that were visible were uneven and either larger or smaller than they God had meant them to be.

I was abruptly brought back from examining the poor creature's body when the same delicate, weak voice from before whispered to me: "wa-ter". I shook my head, realizing that I had popped the cork from the skin, and I held it up to his lips where he greedily drank every relieving drop of water that remained in it. When I felt it was empty, I pulled it away from his lips and began to examine his face again. Though it was deformed horribly, you could still sense some sort of docile, benign character that lingered behind it. Though the edifice of his temple was grotesque and malformed, the gentle demeanor of this man showed through (though how I do not know). I saw a single tear fall from his cerulean eyes before I felt the large rough fist of one of the men of the crowd drag me down from the pillory screaming something about how the thing is meant to be punished and that I was giving him too much pleasure by even making eye contact. "The bell-ringer should have never left his perch with the gargoyles" he barked at no one in particular. As we approached the edge of the crowd, I jerked my arm from his grip and slowly made my way back home.

As I laid in my bed that night I couldn't seem to drift off into sleep. The events of the day kept replaying in my head, but most of all I couldn't seem to forget that face, those eyes. The poor meek man who was being punished, it seemed, for his unfortunate appearance. While he was rough and coarse externally, his eyes seemed to beg for affection, to beg for one to gaze deeper beyond his twisted figure and into his soul. The Eucharist in his church, one might say.

Eventually I was able to let these gripping thoughts pass from me and I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Agnus Dei

I stirred when I sensed the sun burning on my eyelids, beckoning my arousal. I shifted from my bed and pressed my feet to the cold stone floor. I had dreamt only of those deep blue eyes. I longed to look deeply into them to see the hidden beauty in the mass of unshapely clay. I discovered that it wasn't only the sun that had stirred me from my restless slumber, but the distant sound of screaming that seemed to be coming from my house. I walked to my boudoir and reached for my robe to cover my thin dressing gown when, suddenly, in through my door burst my father. His eyes were filled with rage, his hands covered in blood.

I backed toward my bed, hoping to wake up from this nightmare, but as I walked backward, he advanced and, running toward me, grabbed me with such strength that I could only imagine the bruises that his hands would leave. "_You_" he whispered. His voice was rough, but filled with malice. His whole body was shaking as I gazed up into his piercing eyes, questioning what I could possibly have done to incur such rage in him. The sounds of screaming and crying still echoed through the house and before I could even open my mouth to question the cacophony filling the whole building, my father began to violently shake me. "You did this you bloody bitch! You swine! How could you do this to your mother?! To your family?! How could you do this to us!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Tears were streaming down his face and I felt him push me violently against my bed, my back hitting the bannister with the loud sound that I could only assume was wood on bone. He stormed from the room, holding his head in his hands and I had no choice but to follow, to investigate. I looked down at my arms, which were thumping with pain. My back caused me so much agony that I could hardly catch my breath.

My brown hair fell in my face as I crawled on my hands and knees to my door. Cries and screaming still echoed through my home; I could barely make out some words "why" "how could this happen" "why would she do this" "damned bitch" were merely a few among them. I grabbed the molding around my door and painfully pulled myself to my feet. I slowly made my way toward the screaming only to realize it was coming from my mother's room. I peered in from the corner only to see her sheets and parts of the floor saturated with blood. On the stool beside her bed was something wrapped in cloth…

I could only assume the worst. The baby didn't make it. She hadn't been as pregnant as she was before she birthed my brothers…it was not the baby's time to live. I walked in, almost tripping over myself from the agonizing pain in my back when my father caught a glimpse of me out of his peripheral vision.

"_S-stop_". The weak voice of my mother muffled the screaming from my younger siblings, the midwives, and my father. "_Get her out…she touched the beast…she killed her…it's…it's…" _She passed out before she could finish her sentence. I shuffled toward her bed to ask what she could possibly mean, when my father raced toward me and picked me up (which wasn't much of a feat, considering how small I am). He ran toward the entrance of the house and threw me into the muddy streets all the while screaming "murderess" at the top of his lungs. The door slammed and I stood up, ignoring the pain in every part of my body, and banged to be let back it.

At least 10 minutes passed before I gave up and fell to the streets with tears in my eyes. I looked down at myself: robe muddy and covered in the blood of my mother, hair disheveled and dripping with mud, barefoot and alone in the world. As I stood up I noticed the entire street had their eyes fixed on me. There was a moment of silence so great that I felt as if for a moment I was deaf…but then came the screams. This time not only my house was filled with screams, but the people of Paris were all screaming at me. They all began to repeat my father's words over and over until I knew I needed to escape, to be away from these people who undoubtedly had malice and murder in their hearts (given the events of yesterday).

So I ran.

I ran as fast as my beaten legs would carry me. I ran to save my life, I ran to find a place to hide, a sanctuary. I ran to escape my family, to escape the death of my sibling. I ran and ran and ran with my eyes closed, burning from tears, until I felt myself fall. I opened my eyes and looked up only to see the great carved mass of Notre Dame before me. Our Lady. Without question I took her promise to heed (the promise that she would keep all children of God safe) and I ran to the doors. They were heavy to push, and with the little strength left I pushed them open and collapsed on to the cold marble floor. As I felt the world going dark I heard the chanting of the morning mass. "_Agnus Dei…miserere nobis"_ _Please God…please Mary, my mother….please have mercy on me. _And then the darkness prevailed and I felt nothing.


	3. Dreams

My dreams, if you could even call them that, were filled with those eyes again. The azure eyes, the color of the sky midday. Those eyes that proved to me and me alone, that there was a man with a soul behind the rough beast….I opened my eyes and there they were; those very same eyes.

I was speechless. It was him. Where was I? How did I get here? I wanted to ask but the moment the man noticed me regaining consciousness he ran from the room. I watched him with such curiosity, he was bow-legged and it seemed that while he ran with great speed, it was also with such difficulty. I tried to lift myself to run after him, to ask him all the questions that suddenly flooded into my mind, but I collapsed under my own weight. I was weak and still barely clothed; my dressing gown was caked with mud and God knows what else. The arms of my robe were caked with mud and the dried blood of my mother. Tears began to well in my eyes and I swallowed but found it impossible as a great lump had formed there from all the guilt I felt piled on my shoulders.

Instead of relinquishing myself yet again to the foolish tears of a child, I decided to lay and inspect the room in which I lay. I was on the floor of a barely lit stone cell. _Is this prison? Have I been sent here for the murder of my sibling?_ I thought to myself. _No it can't be…there are no gargoyles or sunlight in the prison cells…_ I noticed around me in each corner were four gargoyles. Their faces reminded me of the man with the cerulean eyes, but unlike my fellow Parisians they didn't frighten me…on the contrary they made me smile with their silly structure. Could you imagine such creatures existing? It would be far more comedic than terrifying. Weakly I smiled and closed my eyes again.

_They screamed murderess as I stood on the pillory next to the deformed man. I saw my mother screaming in the crowd, covered in blood, holding the tiny red corpse in her hands, her gaze filled with as much hate as my father's and the rest of my family. They took my hands and bound me, pulling my clothes off to humiliate me. I saw the man in the black mask approach me with his whip and pull my hair back, tugging roughly with his hands, so rough in fact that I was sure he would pull every strand out. I tried to scream out, scream that I was innocent and had done nothing, it wasn't my fault, but my voice failed me….and then I felt the whip on my back and I screamed at the top of my lungs. _


	4. The Embrace

I was jolted awake by the sound of my own screaming. The man before me fell backward with a jolt. It…it was him, the deformed man with the eyes of the ocean. I felt his hand slip from under my head and I saw his whole body trembling. Terrified I looked down at myself. I had been covered in a wool blanket, up to my breasts, covering my whole body. I saw the man pick himself up and run toward the door and out onto what I could assume was the balcony on the top of Notre Dame….wait….the top of Notre Dame…how could I have possibly made it up here, being in the state I am? But there was no time to think of the trivialities of my location, but rather to question this man who was so close to me, apparently examining every detail of my face. I pushed myself from the bed, only to fall curled up in the coarse wool blanket. I managed to wriggle my way out of it and crawl to the door of the cell, attempting to find him. I grasped onto a piece of stone jutting out from the wall, attempting to pull myself to my feet, to chase after this man who filled me with so much curiosity.

When I had managed to regain my balance, I wobbly walked after the creature. The wind was so strong on the top of the great mass of Notre Dame that I could barely keep myself upright (I did fall several times). Eventually I walked into the silent bell tower and found the man hunched over as if he were trying to hide like a child. I shuffled myself forward and fell, landing on him. _I'm so stupid! So so so stupid! How could I be so clumsy?! How could I cast all my weight on this man who already seemed to carry the weight of the universe on his shoulders! How could I-_ My train of thought was cut off as I rolled off of his bumpy back and onto the wooden floor of the tower. I watched him stand and turn to see me. He was shaking and upon making eye contact, he covered his face with his massive hands. I pulled myself (trembling as well) to my feet and strode over to this poor man.

I placed my hand over his and slowly tried to pull his hands from covering _those _eyes. He relented, and slowly lowered them himself to his side. He and I were roughly the same height, and at eye level…I was finally able to examine his wondrous eyes. Bluer than any natural occurring blue I'd seen in this lifetime. His face was a deformed mass, however. I wasn't sure if I was more terrified, or filled with curiosity about his construction. He was an ugly man, but the way he trembled as he gazed upon me showed me the tender kind man he must be behind that malformed exterior. I calmly approached him, my hand outstretched, reaching for his face when he jerked back, his eyes wide with something that I could only assume was terror. I smiled and gently spoke to him (I think) for the first time.

"it's ok…I promise I won't hurt you". Instead of the reaction I had anticipated, he looked even more afraid and confused. And then he spoke.

His voice was soft, but sounded odd all the same, as if he had never spoken in his life but knew the words to say and how to say them.

"I…I'm sorry….I can't understand you…I am…I am deaf you see. I know what you must think 'What was God thinking when he made this deformed ugly creature! His deafness is all that was lacking in his apparent imperfection!' I know that, I know that I couldn't be any more pathetic and worthless than I am…but if you could, please move your lips slowly…I might be able to understand you if you speak slower…" I couldn't believe it. This poor man! Deaf, blind, bow-legged (almost entirely lame) and misshapen; how could the people of Paris treat him with such contempt when he was nothing more than a pitiable creature?

"Don't worry" I mouthed very slowly. "I promise not to hurt you".

"I understand" he replied. "You say you won't hurt me, is that correct?" I nodded. And as I approached him, he shrunk down, but didn't back away further as he had. I rested my hand on his cheek, perplexed by his visage. His skin was coarse and was covered in barely fresh wounds from the stones and various objects that had been hurled at him yesterday. I traced my hand up to the great mass over his eye. It was bumpy and covered in red bushy hair. My fingers softly glided up to the top of his head and I ran my fingers through his fiery hair. It was much softer than I had expected it to be, especially given the general feel of the rest of his form.

Overwhelmed by pity, I grabbed and clutched him in my arms (that barely could stretch around his large figure). I could feel his body tense, but I couldn't resist my urge to show him some sort of tangible affection. I let go, afraid of hurting him further (given the scars that now covered his back after the trial he had endured). Backing up I looked again into those amazing eyes. He seemed painfully shocked, and stood as rigid as the stones that surrounded us. I smiled at him, but his face remained placid. It seemed that he wasn't truly mentally present. And all at once, he ran from me with such speed that my hurt body had no way of keeping up with him.

What had I done? Did I indeed hurt him when my intentions were nothing but to help him and perhaps bestow upon him some much-needed affection? He wasn't as terrible as he seemed to think that he was…he was more of a curiosity than a burden or plague to me. I hoped to find him later, to ask him the questions that I hadn't been able to. I decided to try and find the stone room in which I had laid earlier, to perhaps appreciate the time I had within this sanctuary.

As I sat back on the straw mattress, I rested my back on the down filled pillow behind me and began to think of my family. Did they miss me, or were they still blaming me for something that my hand could have never had part in. I wondered how much they hated me. I wondered if my mother had merely fainted or if she had died in childbirth as my aunt and cousin had. If I were to return would they take me back? I doubted that I could ever go back to my simple life again…no matter how desperately I prayed to Our Lady. My supplications would undoubtedly go unheard, as I'm sure the prayers of the man I had touched have.


	5. In the Moonlight

I managed to fall asleep again, only to be summoned out of slumber by the moonlight shining in my eyes. I looked around the room and saw the door open and a dark figure sitting on my bed. I recognized him. It was the deformed man whom I had embraced earlier. He held my hand gently in his as he looked toward me. The moonlight glinted off his eyes, and I could barely make out a faint look if curiosity on his face. I hadn't noticed till now how large his hands were, but it was made apparent as I noticed my entire wrist hidden beneath his fingers. I shifted in the bed, and he noticed and slowly leaned closer to me, attempting to see my face in the moonlight. As he moved closer, I began to sit up, moving closer to him, trying to inspect his face…and as we leaned ever closer to each other, I could smell his breath…and it was surprisingly sweet-smelling; like fresh fruits. I reached my other hand up and caressed his face. I was shocked (to say the least) that he didn't jerk away from me; rather he behaved as a small dog would: he closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to my hand, eager for affection. His face was coarse with small bumps covering parts of his skin. I looked up into his eyes and prayed that this wasn't a dream, and if it was, that I would never wake up. I can't explain it but I could feel myself growing more than sympathetic for the man…I felt more than compassion, more than even concern…

Suddenly, I saw him jerk his head toward the window, let go of my hand, and almost launch himself from my bed to the floor. He sat in the corner, pulled his knees to his chest, and remained quiet (I assumed, to hide). I looked toward the window as well, and noticed a very faint light. As it grew brighter, I could feel my heart racing. I pulled the blanket up to my chin, trying to hide any part of my body that I could. I had a feeling I knew where the source of the light was coming from. The light slowly reached the door of my cell, and in strode an older-looking man wearing priest's garb. I knew instantly it was Archdeacon Frollo. I began to feel even more frightened as his face twisted into one of anger. It was known how he loathed women, how he shunned them from his presence, how he would even lecture them on anything that he could perceive them doing wrong (and most of the time it was a lengthy and angry lecture on immodesty).

He looked me up and down and began to speak, but cut himself off as he turned toward the corner where the man hid.

"Quasimodo….what are you.." he mumbled to himself. _Quasimodo…_I thought. That must be his name. I'd heard it before and never thought to associate it with him, but it made sense now. Quasimodo was a name that was associated with all things bad in Paris…it makes sense now why they flogged the poor man…

I watched Archdeacon Frollo kneel at Quasimodo's level and begin to contort his hands into such strange gestures at such an unbelievable speed. Quasimodo looked terrified, nodded a couple times, and then crawled from the room as the Archdeacon followed him with his eyes. Then, as I had expected, the Archdeacon turned toward me and began to speak very slowly.

"What are you doing in my church?" He began to ask, the annoyance apparent in his voice. "Have you come to seduce my bell-ringer and leave the Angelus silent? Do you realize that he is not normal? Do you know how easily corruptible he is, how easily a woman _like you_ can twist his thoughts and lead him to damnation? Have you _no pity? No soul? No conscious?"_

The entire time he spoke, I clutched the blanket and felt myself shaking. There was no way the Archdeacon could understand what was going through my mind, how I wanted to help Quasimodo. I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. I tried to figure out what words to say, how to compose them in such a way that I wouldn't be cast out again to the mercy of my grieving father and the murderous people of Paris.

"F-Father…" I began, my lip quivering like a leaf in the autumn breeze. "M-my family…t-t-they blame me f-for my s-sibling's death" He walked closer to me. "I didn't…I mean I couldn't have done it. He died i-inside my mother, there was nothing that I did…they want to kill me I didn't kill him there was no way I could've killed him they all said it was because I helped him but I only wanted to help him I didn't want to watch him there hurting so I helped him and it was only water, nothing more, just water...only water…" I noticed myself babbling and placed my hand over my mouth to silence myself. Archdeacon Frollo looked down at me with a face that seemed to have some shred of mercy written on it. And then I looked down at my hand and noticed that it was the one caked in the filth of the street and the blood of my mother.

"Child, what happened?" He asked, sounding as concerned as I would hope that a priest would. I explained the entirety of day's events, telling him how I woke up, how I was in so much pain, how I ran until I passed out in the church…and how I somehow regained consciousness in this very cell. He listened intently and motioned for me to stop as soon as I began to babble again. "Child, you may stay here until a suitable place can be found. Quasimodo will give you food as I instruct him, and I will tell him not to come near you (as I can imagine how frightened you are by him). He is deaf, so your screaming won't affect him at all. Also…my child, you failed to mention what your family think caused your sibling to pass."

"I saw Quasimodo at the pillory being whipped…and he called out for water so I gave him some…it was the only human thing one could do I-"

His face suddenly contorted from concern to malice.

"You may stay here for two days." He snapped. "You may only be in the church, the belltower, or this very cell. You are not to enter any other room in this structure, you are not to speak to me, you are not to receive communion, you are not to attend mass, and you are not to interact with the bell-ringer". With that, he exited the cell and slammed the door.

I couldn't possibly imagine what I had said to incur such rage in him. First he thinks I'm a prostitute, then he offers to give me sanctuary, and then he revokes it for two days of solitude. I didn't know what to think. I pulled the blanket up to my neck again and turned over into a restless sleep. I don't think I had any dreams that night.


	6. The moon and her gargoyle

The sound of the door to my cell closing stirred me. I looked around and found a basin full of water, a cup, a cloth, and a large piece of white folded fabric. I looked around, even opened the door to the cell, but I found no one. I decided after several minutes, that I would trust whomever left these things and I would clean myself off. Laying the thick blanket over my back, I faced away from the door and nervously slipped out of my dressing gown and robe, and washed the dirt and blood from my body. I felt significantly cleaner and I regretted having to replace the filthy garments on my body…but that was when I remembered the large white fabric. I picked it up in my hands and realized it was a dress, of sorts. _You brought me new clothes, didn't you Quasimodo…_I thought to myself. I pulled it on and found a rope on the floor, which I tied around my waist. As I expected, the dress was too long for me. I tried to use the rope to adjust the length, but I only managed to make myself look sillier.

I decided to abuse the permission the Archdeacon had given me, and set out to explore the bell tower. As I strode down the long pathway between sets of massive columns, I noticed I could see all of Paris. I walked to the bannister and leaned over, peering down at the square below. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of Paris that only Notre Dame herself could show me. I continued walking until I passed the great columns until I noticed there was another door similar to mine, that was partially ajar. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided to peek in. _He said I couldn't enter the rooms…he said nothing about looking in..._ I leaned forward and pushed the door in slightly. It was a dark room, with an empty space on the floor I can assume was meant for a bed. There were bits of fabric I assumed to be clothes and small statues lying around the room, and in the corner, I spied Quasimodo crouching down, facing the wall. I then noticed that he was changing his tunic, and as hard as I tried, I couldn't avert my eyes. Curiosity, you understand. I saw his back as his lifted his tunic and was horrified to see all the cuts and bruises that covered it. On that day, I hadn't seen the extent of torture he had endured (as it had been covered by a large yellow fabric). His back was still covered in dried streams of blood that had clearly not been washed off.

I ran to my room, grabbed the large cup and the cloth, and ran back between the massive columns, back to the room Quasimodo hid in. I knelt on the floor and dipped the cloth into the large cup, wringing it out and as I touched his back and he turned with a jump. I smiled at him, but as before, he covered his face and shrunk down trying to hide from me. I reached my hand out and pulled his large hands from his face. I turned his eyes slowly toward my lips and said "I promise I won't hurt you". He nodded, and relaxed his body, but only slightly. He was so timid, like a poor defenseless animal that had been beaten and still feared the kindest of touches. He was still so very tense, and I could sense that he was afraid that I spoke falsehoods, when my only intent toward the man had remained the same: any sort of affection that I could possibly afford him. I reached up and began to slowly wipe the blood from his back, desperately trying to avoid causing him anymore pain. The blood was layered on thickly, and difficult to remove, and I could tell it did hurt him slightly when he tensed up even more. Oddly enough, as I could only guess how much it burned, he never once made a sound. And as I recall…the day he was tortured on the pillory…the only sound he made was beckoning for water to an earless audience.

A few minutes passed and I had nearly removed all the blood from his back. I looked upon it, mostly clean, and began to examine it. His spine seemed to twist and aside from the gashes and bruises, it seemed very bumpy under the skin. Looking down at my hands, I noticed they were again covered in blood. I dropped the cloth onto the floor and began trying to wipe my hands on the dress Quasimodo had bestowed upon me. I couldn't seem to get them clean…they were so bloody…with the blood of this kind innocent. I felt guilt wash over me again as I began to think of my family and how I was being held accountable for my sibling's…my innocent sibling's death. I shuddered and began to shake, wiping my hands on my dress over and over and nothing could rub off all the blood that had stained my pale skin. Quasimodo turned around to face me, and I looked up upon sensing movement. My eyes were wide and he returned the expression. He then looked down to my shaking hands and back up into my face, clearly perplexed.

"Oh no…" he said softly. "Did I disgust you? Are you trying to wipe me from your hands…" he seemed to muse. My hands rested on my dress and in shock I looked up at him. His face was significantly more twisted than normal, and the array of emotions displayed on it was enough to cause tears to well up in my eyes. I dragged my now heavy arms up and placed them on his misshapen shoulders.

"Quasimodo, never think that." I said slowly, hoping he could read my lips. He nodded to assure me of this, and I continued. "You have been so very kind to me…so very kind." He nodded. "I only want to return that." With that he pulled himself further into the corner and stared at me, terror on his face. Had he misunderstood? "I only want to be kind to you" I said slower. He again began to shuffle away from me, further into the corner, terrified to have me touch him it seemed. "Have I upset you, Quasimodo?" I asked. He grabbed the purple and red tunic next to him and covered his face. Behind the cloth I could distinguish the sound of whimpering and I was terrified that I had, again, hurt this poor man. I sat up and shuffled myself closer to him, reached out my hand, and pulled his down below his eyes. He was crying. "Oh…oh no…Quasimodo I'm so sorry…" I said, shaking even more. I had hurt him, I knew it.

"N-no…." he managed to choke out between whimpers. "You…you are so kind to me…I have done nothing deserving of this…I do not even know your name…you are so beautiful, a beam of the sun…helping a lonesome gargoyle who hides in the darkness…"

I blinked. He wasn't upset with me…but rather with himself. I tried to force a smile, and I moved even closer to him, praying that he would be able to read my lips.

"My name is Lune" I said softly. "Lune…like the moon". His eyes opened wide.

"You are my moon then, shining in the darkness…" he whispered.


	7. Get Out

My eyes widened and I slowly backed away from him. This poor fool of a man…he had no idea what he had just said. Perhaps in his deafness he had grown dumb. Perhaps he was the fool all took him for. I couldn't believe my ears…had he proclaimed affection for me? Surely not. I stood and backed away from him, stumbling as I did, and falling backward into the doorway. Surely this could not be…there was no conceivable way.

I picked myself up, turned and ran down the large bridge between the two great towers, the columns seeming to follow me as I ran. His words echoed in my ears. _You are my moon. _He didn't know me, he had no idea the cruel, idiotic, selfish little girl I was. I was to blame for the death of my sibling, I was to blame for all my family's hardships, I was foolish with my tongue, I was foolish with my actions. I was the fool, not he. But how could he know these things? I burst into the room where I had been held, grabbed my bloodstained gown, and proceeded through the twists and turns of the bell tower, attempting to make my way out of this great hulking mass of stone when I found myself before the Archdeacon again. I looked up into his face with fear, and he looked at me emotionless. He seemed drained, empty, as if someone he knew had died.

"F-Father Frollo…I..I am leaving now…please forgive me for trespassing in your church.." I managed to choke out, tears forming in my eyes. It would seem for the past few days that I had been crying uncontrollably. He nodded, and proceeded past me in a deep haze. I couldn't fathom what had happened to shake him so, his whole demeanor seemed to change overnight. Shrugging it off, I shakily ran down the stairs clutching my filthy garments to my chest, and proceeded out of the cathedral, my feet pounding against the stone. I ran into the streets, refusing to turn around, refusing to even think of Quasimodo, of his words.

Before I knew it I had crossed over the river and found myself running down the street where my house resided. I stopped before my house, looking up toward the balcony. It was the early morning and the street was deserted, save for a few beggars crouched over in the gutters. I closed my eyes and burst into my home. It was dark, and eerily silent. Standing breathless, I listened for the sound of footsteps and heard none.

"Hello?" I said quietly. My voice echoed through the room, and no one returned my greeting. In a daze, I walked up the winding stairs to my room. Upon opening the door I found it still in the state of disarray that I had left it in. My bed stood crooked against the wall, my clothes were crinkled on the floor, and a few other miscellaneous items lay on the floor. I closed the door behind me and walked into the room, dropping my filthy clothes to the floor. I crossed to the wardrobe and found myself an outfit to replace the oversized white robe I was currently dressed in.

After I had changed, I sat on my bed and found myself staring blankly at the wall. Needless to say, I was still in a state of total shock. That poor foolish man…how could he be so blind? What fool would ever think kindly of me? I decided the best remedy for my current state would be rest, so I fell over and closed my eyes, content to have a pillow beneath my head.

"Get out"

I jumped with a start and saw my younger brother kneeling beside my bed.

"Get out" he whispered again. "If anyone else sees you here, they might kill you or have you sent to Place de Greve"

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "Why? What have I done?!"

"Shh" he said, placing his finger over his lips. "Don't be too loud. Mother is asleep, and if she hears you she'll scream. They all think you murdered our brother. _I_ know you didn't, but they're convinced because you touched that beastly man that you brought a curse onto us. You know well that that man is cursed, you know well with the red hair of a demon and the face to match that he is of Lucifer! Lune, you have to leave. Grab what you can and leave." He grabbed my arm and pulled me from my bed. In a haze I grabbed a large leather satchel and filled it with a few prized possessions, another dress, and a blanket.

I hurried down the stairs and back out into the street, only by now the sun had set. My brother watched me as I left. I was so confused. Why did people think Quasimodo was a demon? He was such a pitiable, kind-hearted man…it didn't make sense.


	8. The Tavern

I wandered through the twists and turns of Paris, clutching my satchel close to me, as homes began to grow dark. I wondered what time it was; everyone appeared to be donning their nightdress and going to sleep. I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and could feel my fingers shaking. I supposed my best chance for finding a bed to rest my weary body would be at a tavern. While I had never entered one before, I had heard tale that they normally had a few rooms above the bar where a patron could rest. Most taverns were inns too, I guess.

Through the dark streets I managed to catch glimpse of a faint light and followed it until I found myself before the very building I sought. I cracked the door and entered, the smell of alcohol slapping me in the face. Men sat at tables laughing and talking, some played cards, and there were a select few sitting around by themselves. I walked over to a woman who was carrying a large pint of ale to a table where it seemed soldiers of the King's guard were sitting along with a boy who looked too young to be with them, and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Yeah yeah, one moment" she said to me, her voice filled with an air of annoyance. She set the ale on the table and turned to me, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, you're a girl. What are you doing in here? Shouldn't you be at home with your husband or safe in a bed? You know these are dangerous places for girls like you…and so well dressed…" she continued babbling about my appearance and the apparent danger I had put myself in by crossing her threshold before I cut her off.

"I'm looking for a place to rest" I said.

"Oh? Well someone like you should be able to pay…give me a moment, girl. I'll look and see if we have anything for you." And with that she walked away, leaving me standing awkwardly next to a table filled with drunken men.

"Oh! Ma chéri!" the youngest man said to me. "Come! Sit with us! Let us treat you to a drink!" I turned and looked at him. He looked about 17, with curly blonde hair and a smug look on his drunken face. "Come! Sit! What, do I have to force you? A thing as pretty as yourself deserves equally as glorious company!" he exclaimed.

"I…I'm sorry, I'm just waiting for her to come back and-" I said, but he cut me off.

"Oh you look tired, girl! Sit and wait for her here, she won't forget you, especially since you seem to have more than a few sous!" He shot a glare at one of the soldiers sitting at the table and motioned for him to move. The soldier grudgingly stood and offered his chair to me, still clasping his beer tightly in his fist. I nervously sat, clutching my satchel even tighter to myself as it sat in my lap. The words of the barmaid echoed in my ears and I felt fear growing in my chest as I looked at the large, muscular men around me. I began to pray silently that they wouldn't hurt me but, yet again, I found myself interrupted by that blonde boy.

"I'm Jehan, mon amour. Jehan de Moulin! You know, my best friend was the Captain of the Guard. I have connections!" he said with a wink.

"Was?" I asked curiously.

"Yeah, unfortunately some gypsy witch murdered him, or so I've heard. Last night. He went to meet with her, but alas, she had a knife! Oh! How violent! I heard that she seduced him, stole his money, and attempted to run off, but in the struggle he managed to strangle her or something to make her pass out. She stabbed him, alas. He died, and she was arrested on the spot, and now rots in jail. Pity, though." He took a long drink from his pint and wiped the foam from his lips in a very undignified manner. "Ah yes, such a pity. She was simply the vision of loveliness! I wish I would've been in Monsieur de Chatepeurs' position: I would've given her a right fuck! She wouldn't have dared think to stab me after a night like I would've given her! Am I right men!?" he asked, laughing heartily.

The men around the table nodded. "Hey, I'm paying for your ale, the least you can do is humor me!" he screamed and they collectively rolled their eyes and laughed almost sarcastically. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and looked toward the bar, praying for the barmaid to return soon. I was growing more uneasy by the second as Jehan continued to babble nonsense, trying to impress me. I couldn't stop thinking about Quasimodo. I wondered what was going through his mind, what he had done with his day, if he had asked Father Frollo where I had gone. Not that it mattered…the best thing for that man might just be to forget me all-together. I was jolted back into reality by a swift kick to my ankle, and I turned to look at Jehan.

"I asked you what your name is, cheri." He slurred, clearly having grown more drunk by the moment.

"Oh uh…it's not important. I'm leaving anyway…" I stammered in a desperate attempt to escape from the table of drunks.

"No, no! You sat at my table and enjoyed my fine company, the least you can do to repay me is give me your name!" He slammed his pint on the table with a loud bang that silenced the entire tavern. All eyes were on me and I felt my face flush.

"I'm…uh….my name is…" I didn't want to tell him, I didn't want him to know. No one here needed to know who I was, but I couldn't think of a convincing enough fake name. Genevieve? Louise? Fleur? Marie? Not one of those fit me.

"Out with it!" Jehan screamed. "Out! With! It!" he began to chant, and soon the whole table began to chant along with them. The men seemed to move closer to me and I stood up, and moved away from the table. The man who was standing behind my seat grabbed me, still chanting with Jehan.

"LUNE" I screamed and wrenched myself away from him. "My name is Lune, alright?! Now leave me be!"

"Ooh Lune…like the moon. How romantic! I bet if Phoebus were still alive, he'd love that name! Oh cheri! Moon! Come sit with us, have a drink, and I promise I'll give you a night you won't soon forget." He began to laugh wildly and the only thing I could think to do was get as far away from that table as possible.

I soon ran into the barmaid and pleaded with her for a room.

"Oi, calm yourself girl! What, did Jehan scare you? That's just the boy's nature." She laughed.

"His nature?!" I screamed. "How could you allow that scoundrel of a boy to take a table in your own tavern? Do you not also live in this building?" I asked, my whole body shaking with anger.

"Oh he's not so bad, the Captain was worse. Besides, with the money he gets from his brother (that he constantly brags about), I get enough to provide my family with food and clothes. Men like him are a necessity to keeping this place alive."

"Who is his brother? The king or someone?"

"Oh no, he was raised by the Archdeacon of Notre Dame! They're both orphans, or so I'd heard."

"Father Frollo….is his brother?" I asked in astonishment.

"Yes, yes. Now, girl, let us negotiate your room. I have one, small, but there is a bed. How many sous do you have?"

Sous. Oh no. I had totally forgotten about money. I fumbled in my satchel and looked up at her, my face white as a sheet.

"Well, girl?" she asked impatiently.

"I…I can trade….I have gold earrings…" I fumbled through my bag when I heard shouting behind me.

"No money, moon?" Jehan screamed. "I'll let you stay with me! C'mon, you know you want to spend a night with me!"

I turned around, my hair whipping over my face. No…there was no way that I wanted to be raped by a boy at least three years younger than me. I closed my satchel and turned back to the waiting woman before me. "I…I'm sorry…for….for wasting your time" I stammered out as I backed away toward the door. I pushed the heavy wooden door open and ran into the streets with Jehan's voice echoing behind me.

"You'll be back, Lune! You know you want a right fuck from me! I'll be here waiting!"


End file.
